Demon Night
by Kendoka Girl
Summary: As the dark winter approaches, the Lord of the Nazgul prepares to destroy the Dunedain of the North. Only a few stalwart defenders stand in his way along with a mercenary of questionable loyalty.
1. The Halls of the Nazgul

_This story is a prequel to the Lost Kingdon of Cardolan. I also wrote this in high school while playing a role playing game. It is based on characters and places in the LOTR and ICE. I hope you enjoy it and please R&R._

**Introduction**

The year is 1408 in the Third Age. Our story takes place in the Land of Rhudaur, located in the North of the continent. The Kingdom has been slowly usurped by the power of the Witch King of Angmar. At one time in the past, Rhudaur was united with two other realms into the great Kingdom of Arnor. During this early period the Kings of Arnor constructed the Gondryn (beacon towers) to communicate the defense of the Realm in the event of an attack by the numerous Hillmen. In the year 861, Eärendur, the tenth and last King of Arnor died, dividing his lands among his three sons, thus creating the Kingdoms of Arthedain, Cardolan, and Rhudaur. Thus, Aldarion became the first King of the new land. He accepted a treaty between the sister Kingdoms for the joint use of the watch tower of Amon Sûl, the greatest fortress of the North and the home of the powerful seeing stone, the Palantír.

In time, tensions rose among the realms and after the death of Thorundur, King of Cardolan. Aldarion, his younger brother, attempted to reunite the lands in 949. Several minor skirmishes resulted, but the death of Aldarion in 951 ended Rhudaur's bid for power. The squabble became more serious in 1084 during the reign of King Tarandil. A war of twelve years ensued. Sides shifted, but most often Arthedain and Rhudaur contested Cardolan's attempts to posses Amon Sûl. The war was indecisive.

Over time, the Dúnedain of Rhudaur grew less numerous and their hold over the land grew weaker. Cardolan sensed an opportunity to restore the Dúnedain and expand its borders.

In 1197 King Calimendil of Cardolan launched a protracted war into Rhudaur to overthrow Rhugga, a Hillman "Barbarian" who had usurped the throne of Rhudaur. Rhugga was an effective and popular leader despite his unsavory methods. The war dragged on for thirty-eight bloody years before Calimendil trapped the Rhudaurans in Cameth Brin, the fortress capitol. Finally, in 1235, Cameth Brin was beaten, its lower levels taken by the Army of Cardolan. That night, the exhausted knights and soldiers rejoiced, but unknown to all, an army of Orcs had answered Rhugga's pleas for aid and had secretly marched east. The Orcs fell upon the unsuspecting forces of Cardolan. The Royal Pavilion fell, and with it well nigh all the lords of Cardolan.

In 1276, an evil spirit named the Lord of the Nazgûl came to the far North and established the Kingdom of Angmar. His goal was to destroy the three northern kingdoms. A renewed war between Cardolan and Arthedain between 1284 and 1287 kept everyone's attention away from Angmar and by 1300 the evil kingdom was completed and the Lord of the Nazgûl became the Witch King of Angmar. Over the next fifty years the Witch King's minions infiltrated the Kingdom of Rhudaur through guile and assassination.

In 1307, Aldor the Addled ascended to the throne of Rhudaur, bringing into power a coterie of advisors. Eventually, everyone on this clique discretely went into the service of Angmar. Many of the Dúnedain fled to Arthedain and Cardolan. However, Celebendil Melossë, the Lord of the Angle (Aran-onen-Egladil), one of the five Great Nobles of the Realm, openly revolted against Aldor. Celebendil had long served as the Warden of Rhudaur and had the loyalty of the Northron mercenaries, who garrisoned the central and south Gondryn. Celebendil held off Aldor's attempts to crush the rebellion.

By 1350, Rhudaur was firmly under the iron fist of the Witch King. Soon thereafter, Angmar and its new ally, Rhudaur launched a brutal assault on the lands of Arthedain and Cardolan. The war raged for seven years ending in 1359. One by one, Celebendil and his sons fell before the onslaught of the Witch King and House Melossë was driven from its last outposts. Celebendil's bold granddaughter, the half-Northron Vulfredda, rallied the remnants of the mercenary army and recaptured her ancestral lands in southern Rhudaur, winning renown as a ferocious shieldmaiden. Her efforts prevented a battalion of Easterling cavalry from arriving at Nothva Rhaglaw in 1358, ensuring a major Arthedan/Cardolan victory there.

Victory came to the men of Arthedain and Cardolan only with the help of the Elves of Rivendell. The Witch-King's Armies were slaughtered, but there were not enough forces in the realms to counterattack into Angmar and thus the war of attrition ended.

In the aftermath of the war, a Dúnadan puppet, Argil the Great, was placed on the throne of Rhudaur. Having recovered from the lashing of the last war, the Witch King was ready to try his hand again in 1408.

**THE HALL OF THE WITCH-KING, Spring, 1405**

Deep within Carn Dûm, the fortress-capitol of the Realm of Angmar, evil plans were being developed to extend the power of the Kingdom. In the year 1276, the Witch-King, chief servant of the Necromancer, came to the north to establish a realm in which to destroy the Dúnedain Kingdoms. The Witch-King brought with him minions of trolls and orcs and other evil beasts, but found the land ruled by Dwarves. Within a few years, the Dwarves had been routed and the refugees brought tales of a great stronghold of dull red stone.

The fortress was actually two strongholds: one sitting upon the base and shoulders of a huge mountain, and the other, delved within the rock of the mountain. The outer walls were fifty feet high and twelve feet thick. Crossbow loops were placed at regular intervals and portcullis could seal off sections of the interior at will, creating killing zones. From there, a series of complex and deadly defenses would pose a serious problem to any attacker.

Deep within the mountain, the Witch King, and his High Priests, the Gulmathaur, ruled the land and plotted the conquest of the North.

A striking middle-aged man wearing well cut, dark brown robes walked along a dark corridor within the depths of Carn Dûm, tapping the floor with his staff. The staff, the sign of a user of essence, was topped with a gilded skull vomiting evil-looking vines from its mouth and eyes. The man's brown eyes glinted, reflecting the light of the wall torches as his breath came out in steam. His dark skin was wreathed in white hair and a white beard.

As he strode confidently forward, his pace was interrupted by a deep voice. "The Master is waiting. Proceed..." The man, a mage by trade, nodded slightly to the huge sentry, an 11-foot tall troll. This monster was one of the elite Hoerk Tereg, personal guards to the Witch-King himself. The plates of its armor reflected the dancing torch fires. Undaunted, the man passed through the doors of the Hall where few men have ventured.

Sinews and ligaments of red porphyry stretch from floor to vaulted ceiling in patterns resembling those of the bowels of some sea monster. At the center of the Hall was a pool of blood in which floated a huge pink swordfish. The man focused his eyes on the fish.

_Is that a throne? In the mouth of the fish?_

The man stood in awe of the horrific sight before him, glancing at the six glassy figures flanking the pool.

"_Approach Ethacali,"_ an eerie, ethereal voice instructed the man.

The man walked forward until he could see a robe in the shape of a man and a crown floating above the shoulders of the robe.

"The Lord of the Nazgûl," Ethacali whispered under his breath.

The crown nodded. "_Indeed. You have risen rapidly in my service and your success in the East has come to the attention of the Necromancer. It is time for you to join the inner circle."_

Ethacali gasped quietly. The mage was not one to exhibit much reaction, but this was the culmination of all his life's work: his hopes and dreams.

_"However, you must show yourself worthy of this honor. I command you to journey to Rhudaur where you will awaken a long-sleeping force. Take this tome and learn it well. It will provide you with the information and powers you will need to complete the task. I will give you command over thirty warriors of the Trûpalog Tribe and five of my trackers. Above all, restrict any overt use of your power so as not to show its source. You must depart tomorrow. Until then, enjoy the hospitality of Carn Dûm."_

A thick book appeared before Ethacali and he stooped to pick it up. He bowed low to the Witch-King and backed away, slightly shaken despite his earlier confidence. As he departed the Hall and walked past the massive troll, a man and a woman in priestly robes met Ethacali.

"Come with us. We will show you to your chambers," they said.

Ethacali's journey to Carn Dûm was difficult. He had passed through the mountains through the torrential spring rains and then into the forbidding cold of Angmar. As a native of Logath in the east, he was unaccustomed to cold weather despite his reputation for being tireless and of iron constitution. He would be glad to get some rest and a hot meal. His first encounter with The Lord of the Nazgûl had gone well.

Soon he was soaking in the hot baths of the fortress. Lounging near the side of the bath, he began to read the tome. It was an ancient text bound in a light metal. As Ethacali scanned through it, he noticed some newer writing.

_What's this? Runes... written by... by the Necromancer himself... What could possibly be so powerful as to warrant this much attention?_


	2. An Ancient Evil

**THE YFELWOOD OF RHUDAUR, Summer, 1405**

Deep in the Trollshaws of Rhudaur, Ethacali's expedition made its way slowly down the road toward the site indicated in the tome. The woods were thick and dark, with tall oaks and beeches tangled together. In haste, one of the trackers came up to the mage.

"Sir, there are trolls about. We should take defensive measures."

Unconcerned, Ethacali shrugged. "Trolls do not worry me. Continue your forward progress. Besides, I have a troll of my own," he said, motioning to a stocky, white-skinned beast given to him by the Witch-King as a bodyguard. The mage had named it Oologg and it carried a monstrous two-handed sword in defense of its master. Two other trolls accompanied the expedition, Orig and Cadnuir, and they lumbered along behind the orcs, keeping them moving into the forbidding forest.

The trackers continued down the path into a ravine, which lead past a marsh. Ethacali scanned the area carefully. "We are close," he commented out loud. Oologg grunted approval.

The mage pointed to a hill covered with loose gravel and some trees. "Send the orcs up there to take a look. Tell them to look for an area of depression."

One of the trackers ordered the orcs to move to the hill. They scrambled up the loose gravel, sending up dust. Once at the top, they began to scan around.

Suddenly, one of the orcs howled and a commotion sprung up as scimitars were drawn.

"What is happening? Go find out!" Ethacali barked. The trackers raced up the hill as orcs retreated back down. From his vantage point, Ethacali could see the trackers firing arrows at the trees.

"Damn, Huorns! I will level them with fire," the mage said with gritted teeth. He began walking up the hill.

_I shall burn them with one ball of flame... No, too obvious. I will have to be subtler._

Ethacali held forth his staff and jets of fire sprang from the eyes of the skull. He reached the crest of the hill and confronted one of the living trees as it swung its branches menacingly over two dead orcs. The dark mage plunged his staff into the trunk of the tree and it sizzled and shook violently.

"I will burn you all, one by one."

**THE YFELWOOD OF RHUDAUR, Fall, 1405**

It took several days for Ethacali to reduce the Huorns to ash, but now the area south of the hill was cleared. Excavation had begun near the hill, but nothing had been found yet. The orcs had built a dam in the big marsh to keep the excavation site from being flooded. A nasty surprise was sprung on the diggers as a horde of flesh-eating bats, known as Serganka, slew three orcs before Ethacali could deal with them.

"It's the cost of doing business," he said calmly to Oologg as the orc bodies were pitched into the smaller marsh near the path. Oologg grunted as he attempted to read a book. The mage had taken an unusual interest in the troll's welfare and education and had taught the beast to read a handful of words.

**THE YFELWOOD OF RHUDAUR, Spring, 1406**

As the winter gave way to spring and the ground thawed, Ethacali moved the excavation north to try a different site. The Witch-King had sent him three orc shamans to help motivate the others. He put them to work, driving the miners to harder labor. In the long months, several deep trenches were dug into the red, claylike dirt.

Ethacali was sitting in his Spartan tent atop the hill, reading further into the tome. "Oologg, have you completed your studies for the day?" he asked the white troll, who was seated in the dirt.

The troll nodded. "Master is wise," it said in a deep, halting voice.

Ethcali was pleased: the beast had come a long way in a year. The mage turned back to his reading as something caught his attention.

"_These spirits may fly as eagles, falcons, wild swans, or ravens. Death caught them amidst their shape change, condemning them to a shadow existence within Arda. They circle above the tumult of storms, cyclones, and squalls to descend upon the unwary and drain their life."_

"_She is imprisoned in a vault of kregora, an ore known to defeat the powers of all magic. The entrance to the vault is embossed with many runes. Despite her dreamless slumber, she taints the lands with her dark power and with her monsters, the Serganka."_

**THE YFELWOOD OF RHUDAUR, Fall, 1406**

Spring gave way to Summer and Summer to Fall. Although the work was progressing well, Ethacali was growing impatient as the miners dug deeper into the earth. He sat in his tent as the autumn rain pattered on the shielding canvas.

There was an urgent knock at the tent door.

"Lord, we have found something. Come quickly," one of the trackers said.

Ethacali bolted up and seized his staff. With Oologg in tow, he rushed down the hill to the deep pit. A ladder led down to a large hole in the ground, flanked by a fractured boulder. The mage took a deep breath and held forth his staff, creating a flame from the gilded skull.

The tracker unleashed two of his wolf-dogs into the hole. The vicious beasts cowered and whimpered in the granite chamber. Ethacali sighed. "Send in the orcs."

Oologg motioned for the miners to enter and fear was palpable on their twisted faces. The orcs drew their scimitars and began to file slowly down the chamber. Other orcs carried tools to continue the excavation. Oologg followed behind them, pressing them on with his massive body. Ethacali came next, holding forth his flaming staff.

The group moved into a series of small caverns where Ethacali's fire revealed the walls, covered in reddish-brown crystals. Suddenly, shrieks filled the air as orcs screamed and flailed about.

"Sergank! Damn, I should have anticipated this. Kadard!" the mage yelled, speaking the password he had learned in the tome. The shrieking died away as the flutter of wings fell silent. He pushed his way forward to see two orcs, their flesh torn from their dying bodies. He shrugged briefly and pointed further down the cavern. The orcs nodded slowly and moved forward.

Creeping cautiously, they passed through another cavern of flawed crystals and scattered rocks.

_This would be a good defensive position. I shall note it,_ thought the mage.

Ever onward they went, through another series of caverns, covered in crystals. Passing through one cavern, Ethcali noted some wondrous blood-red crystals. Ever the pragmatist, the mage ignored them and pressed on while the trackers marveled at their beauty and possible value.

"Pay the crystals no mind. We have work to do," said Ethacali blandly.

They pressed on toward cracks in the cavern wall, where sunlight gleamed through.

The mage pushed the orcs forward. "There, break down that wall." Grunting, the orcs struck the rocks with picks and shovels, eroding the wall with determined effort. Soon, the rocks crumbled, giving way to diffuse sunlight in another chamber.

"There, in the dirt... that door," said the mage with growing excitement. The orcs showed nothing but dread. Oologg, sensing his master's desire, reached down and lifted the metal door from the ground. Fetid air rose up from the gaping hole in the earth, which revealed a wooden stairway underground.

Ethacali tested the creaky stairway with his staff. "It'll hold. Let's go."

Taking a deep breath, the orcs began making their way down the creaky stairs. After a long descent, they stepped out onto a floor of black marble covered with dust. The walls of the foyer were also of black marble and seemed to absorb the light of Ethacali's fire. A pair of blood-colored doors blocked the exit on the right side of the foyer.

The mage moved past the orcs and examined the doors. He snapped his fingers and Oologg handed him the tome. Ethacali sat on the floor, flipping through the pages of the book.

"Here... I have the password," he muttered and then approached the doors. He whispered something arcane and silver lines magically appeared on the portal. Then, he easily pushed them open with a dry creaking noise.

"The Necromancer is benevolent," Ethacali said, half in prayer.

Together, they entered a chamber with a floor of latticed bloodstone and black marble. Ancient, crumbled furnishings littered the area. Following his master, Oologg had to crouch to enter the area, which was only eight feet high.

Cautiously, Ethacali looked around. On the left side of the chamber was a gold-colored door. Corridors ran straight ahead and to the right. The mage strode purposely over to the door and glanced at it. He turned the knob slowly and the door opened. With growing anticipation, he walked through into a narrow corridor, which branched into a "T". There, on either side, he discovered the Preparation Chamber and the Chamber of Evil Channeling, where evil rituals were held for the Dark Lord.

"These rooms were used to worship Sauron three thousand years ago! We are the first to enter them since that time," Ethacali said with some excitement, "We will make our quarters here and press forward in the morning. I shall begin our ritual here to commemorate our good fortune."

As the orcs entered and stood in awe, Ethacali and the orc shamans laid out their evil paraphernalia and began chanting. Strange, tortured shapes appeared along the walls of the Chamber of Evil Channeling. They writhed and shrieked as the mage called upon the power of the Necromancer. When he was done, he felt renewed and invigorated.

"We shall succeed and all of the North shall bow to us."

The following day, the expedition awoke and began to make their way down the right-hand corridor. As they entered into a long-forgotten and dusty guardroom, Ethacali noticed a stairway down, deeper into the earth. The mage motioned to the stair, but at first, the orcs hesitated.

"Go, or I will flay your maggot-infested hides," he ordered. Although subtle and a man of great reasoning, Ethacali knew how to motivate orcs by fear.

Reluctantly, they began down the steps into the darkness. This led to a landing and then a waiting room with closed doors of blood red. Before Ethacali could say anything, an orc touched the door.

From the door itself, flames erupted, searing several orcs. Screams and the smell of burnt flesh filled the room and a few orcs tried to flee back up the stairs before being blocked by Oologg.

"Idiots! Move aside!" shouted Ethacali, mildly singed. He stepped over the smoldering bodies of the burned orcs and viewed the doors.

"Another symbol..." he said, searching the tome for an answer, "Yes, I have it here."

He held forth his staff and uttered a word. The doors creaked open and a cold air rushed out. Even the unflappable Ethacali could not help but be chilled by the feeling of dread and horror that came out of those doors. The flames from his staff dimmed and crackled.

Beyond the doors, Ethacali could see two unmoving humanoid shapes. He stepped forward, holding two runes from the tome.

_This is the first test._

He ordered the orcs forward. Snarling and in fear, they inched toward the shapes, which seemed to float and shimmer in the gloom. One of the braver orcs crept up to a shape, which appeared female. It gingerly put its finger up to her face and touched her. When nothing happened, he sighed with relief.

Then, the orc shrieked. It pulled back its hand, but something was wrong. Its arm shriveled and it began to turn white. It rolled in agony on the floor, its entire body shriveling and blanching. The other orcs watched in horror as their cohort died.

The other shape suddenly moved, reaching out and seizing an orc by the throat. That orc howled and hacked at the shape with its scimitar, then it, too, began to shrivel.

Despite his growing panic, Ethacali rushed into the corridor and confronted the two shapes. He produced one of the runes.

"Naranatur, by the power of the Necromancer I bind thee! Thy powers are now mine to wield!" he shouted at the male shape.

As the female shape slaughtered another orc, the male froze, assuming a docile stance. Ethacali struggled to hold up the other rune. The light of his staff flickered and dimmed.

"Skrykalian, by the power of the Necromancer I bind thee! Thy powers are now mine to wield!"

Ethacali exhaled in relief as the female became still. In the corridor, the orcs cowered and snarled at the ghostly, translucent shapes. These things were horrors beyond even their evil imaginings. The mage cautiously crept forward and looked at Skrykalian. She was tall and noble in appearance, much resembling a beautiful Númenórean woman with the exception of white-feathered wings at her back. Her translucent face was serene and expressionless. Naranatur stood taller still with black wings and a black sword.

Ethacali walked around them, admiring their evil beauty. "These are the Blood-Wights, my friends, long-forgotten horrors once in the service of Sauron, eons ago. Now, they serve me."

Ethacali scoured the tome for more information. "There will be one more Blood-Wight; the greatest of the three. She is called Blogath and I have one rune left for which to bind her. Then, we can complete the conquest of Rhudaur."


	3. The Tale of Dagar

**CARN DÛM, Fall, 1406**

In the wake of their success, the mage halted any further exploration to consolidate and assess their situation. He even had the orcs clean parts of the tunnels and established quarters for the miners. Ethacali spent many days learning how to communicate with the Blood-Wights. They were fascinating creatures, who were wholly evil. As the mage's control over them increased, he grew more bold.

"It is time to report my success to the Witch-King. I leave for Carm Dûm tonight," he told the orc shaman, Grashur, "You are proceed no further down the corridor until I return."

As winter approached and the flurries began to fall, Ethacali set out to tell of his victory.

Returning to the fortress city, Ethacali braved the snow and frigid temperatures. As the mage dismounted and entered the fortress itself, steam floated from his warm body. At the long hall into Carm Dûm he was met by a disturbing sight. A horrid beast, part man, part orc, and part dog stood there, attempting a smile. Its goblin fangs showed through curled lips in a canine snout. Long red hair, braided in copper shrouded its face. Intelligent hazel eyes gazed out over a dog nose.

"Greetings Ethacali, I am Ulduin, Lord of the Sorcerors. The Nazgûl awaits you."

Ethacali half bowed. His amazement was obvious. Ulduin sensed the mage's nervousness and was pleased.

"My appearance is disconcerting. I was a vassal of the Nazgûl Dwar and am the product of his mastery of breeding. I founded the Order of the Blood of the Shadows, Bwaig-ir-Omdren in my tongue. The Witch-King has found use for me here in the North."

Ethacali nodded warily. "I see. What does the Lord have planned now that I have uncovered the Blood-Wights?"

The beast laughed in a gurgling chuckle. "We shall see mage, we shall see."

In the Hall of the Witch-King, Ulduin led Ethacali up to the pool of blood. The mage secretly chafed at the thought that some 'experiment' held a higher position than he. At the edge of the pool, Ethacali bowed low to the Nazgûl. "My Lord, I bring good tidings. I have bound the Blood-Wights Naranatur and Skrykalian as you have commanded. Upon my return, I shall do the same to Blogath."

An elf, who stood beside the Nazgûl, nodded to Ethacali. "I am Camthalion, Lord of the Gulmathaur. You have done well in the service of the Lord of Angmar. Tonight, we shall celebrate and learn of the plan to devour the Northern Kingdoms."

The Witch-King stood from his throne and floated across the pool of blood toward Ethacali. "_Yes, let us rejoice our good fortune. Come, Ethacali, tell me of your victory_." The iron crown of the Nazgûl floated ominously above his shoulders and a broadsword was strapped prominently to his belt. Its deep red pommel was crowned with a massive ruby. Ethacali saw Quenya runes on the scabbard of the sword, saying Vasamacil, the blade eater. Hanging near the Witch-King's throne were other weapons of long renown: a morning star of black eog, a volcanic glass, forged in the depths of Utumno; a Númenórean steel bow; and a helm made of overlapping Sea Drake skin plates with a spiny crown-shaped crest. The Witch-King noticed Ethacali's fascination with these relics and he held out his hand. The morning star and helm flew to his hand.

"_This is Nallagurth, the death's proclaimer_," he said, showing the weapon. The eog was subtly inlaid with veins of fused diamonds. "_I received it from our Lord Sauron eons ago_."

Displaying the helm, the Nazgûl continued, "_This is the helm of my father, Tar-Ciryatan of Númenor. Enough of this for now, come, I wish now to tell you of my plan_."

The group journeyed to the Council Chamber, where the Witch-King sat on a throne set on a dias raised six-feet above the floor. Already seated there was a Dúnadan of middling age dressed in black robes with an elaborate staff. Also seated there was an elf-woman in exotic attire.

Ethacali recognized the Angûlion by reputation. He was a sorcerer born in Númenor and had lived beyond the count of years. Rumor had it that the Angûlion was a cousin to one of the Nazgûl. The elf-woman was introduced as Ulgarin, and Astrologer from the realm of Helkanen in the uttermost east.

The others took their seats and Ethacali was offered one near to the Angûlion. The Witch-King pointed to a map on one of the walls, depicting the North.

"_In the spring of the following year I shall launch my grand assault. It is my intent to destroy the Kingdoms of Arthedain and Cardolan. In the last war we were thwarted by the presence of rebels in the land of Rhudaur. So, to accomplish my plan, I am tasking Ethacali with crushing the rebels to ensure the way into Arthedain is clear_."

Ethacali examined the map closely, remembering as much detail as he could.

The Witch-King continued, "_Ethcali is to use his new allies to bring about the destruction of the rebel tribe, Vulseggi, and the House of Rhudainor, the former rulers of Rhudaur. You must take care, however, the spies of the elves are everywhere. The fall of Southern Rhudaur must mot appear to be motivated by Angmar. An ongoing skirmish between the Vulseggi and our Cultirith rangers will be excellent cover for the fall of the Rhudauran beacon towers, the Gondryn. Ethacali, you are to meet with Hirgrim, captain of the Cultirith and plan this action. You will complete the task no later than the Spring of Fourteen O' Nine_."

The mage bowed, honored to receive such a blessing.

The Witch-King stood and walked to the map. He pointed to a lake in the heart of Arthedain. "_The Angulion shall lead the assault on Annuminas and Fornost. Our losses will be heavy, but the destruction of the capitol of Arthedain will cripple them. I, along with the warlord troll Rogrog, shall assault the Tower of Amon Sûl. From there, the door to Cardolan shall be open and Tharbad shall be destroyed. I will need you, Camthalion, Ulduin, and Ulgarin to prevent the elves from intervening before our plans are ready_."

The group stood and bowed to the King of Angmar. "It shall be done."

**THARBAD, Narwain, 1407**

Young Dagar sat in his cell, head in his hands. Without looking up, he continued his story to his cellmate.

"My father, Culberth of Thuin Boid sent me here to apprentice in the Merchant Guild, but I was led astray," he sobbed, "My so called friends led me into drugs and wine. I was expelled from the Guild and now look, here I am," Dagar whined. He was a small man, who was very organized and given to putting on airs, but his recent misfortune had shaken him badly. His normally well-groomed appearance had given way to a disheveled, dirty look.

Mildly interested, the cellmate nodded. "So, what are you going to do now?"

"I don't know. I can't go home, I've been disinherited!"

The cellmate nodded again. "Hey, I can get you a job at the Nightsinger's house. Can you keep accounts?"

"Yes, I can do that. But, how can I if I'm in here?"

"Don't worry, lockup is only for the night. We'll be out in...say... About now."

At that moment, the fat jailer, Mardil came and unlocked the iron doors to the cell. Dagar and his newfound friend stumbled out and were led to the office of the Minister of the King's Justice. Mardil unshackled them and departed as a well-dressed man approached.

"I am Herucalmo Galadhelion, a barrister. Your case is minor. I can get it dismissed for a fine."

Dagar nodded silently. The doors to the office opened and Herucalmo ushered them in.

"All rise for the Minister of the King's Justice, the honorable Eärdil," a bailiff called. An imposing man of Dúnadan ancestry entered. His jet-black hair and robes of state cut a noble figure. He sat and looked down upon the two from his bench. He read the charges and smirked.

"Fortunately, it has been a slow week and I am feeling benevolent. However, I want assurances that you two clowns will not be returning here," Eärdil said sternly. The Minister had a well-deserved reputation for fairness and adhering to the letter of the law. He stared deeply into Dagar's eyes, sensing that the young man was only a mischief maker and not a true criminal.

Dagar looked away and blushed. "Sir, I swear you will not see me here before you again. In fact, I have a job waiting at the Nightsinger's house."

Eärdil raised an eyebrow and smirked. "Interesting... Well, I wish you luck, young man. Do not make me regret my decision."

"You will not, Sir, I can assure you," said Dagar with some renewed confidence.

As Mardil showed them to the gate of the city jail, they could see the snows falling on the streets of Tharbad. Dagar's friend motioned him northward along the Cherant Aran Canal, where they passed the large house of the Gondorian Embassy. Two guards stood outside, clad in shiny chainmail shirts. Their helms bore the symbol of the white tree surrounded by seven stars.

They joined the heavy merchant traffic along the Menatar, the main road through the city and crossed the South Bridge. Along the great bridge, numerous kiosks displayed their wares and the road was bustling with shoppers. Many merchants sheltered under the bridge gatehouse, known as the Ryncaras Tharbad. It was an imposing stone structure with narrow spires, constructed by now lost technology in the days of Númenor.

The pair worked their way to the island in the center of the Gwathlo River. This was the heart of Tharbad, where the King and his family ruled the city. The Merchant's Quarter, the Commons, the Docks, and the Thieves' Quarter were also located here.

Dagar blushed as he passed the "Lover's Delight" on the right of the road. He had spent far too much of his allowance here in the past months. Along King's Row, Dagar saw many of the shops he frequented during the time in which he had some money. Dagar liked to pretend to be far above his station and would often purchase useless things reserved for the castles of the nobility. Somehow, this made him feel important.

As the pair passed the King's House, or Bar Aran, traffic was being diverted to a nearby street. Dagar, ever enamored of royalty, snuck forward through the crowd to get a glimpse of the house. There, he could see the gates being opened by the Royal Guard. A man dressed in the tunic of a prince rode out with a complement of guards.

Dagar inhaled sharply. "That is Prince Braegil the Scholar. They say he is the most learned man in Cardolan."

His friend shrugged. "Seems he's always away on some expedition. I guess if you have the money..."

Dagar nodded, stroking his ratty goatee. "Yes, I have heard he is looking for mithril. Wait, what is this?"

A carriage drove out of the gate, pulled by two magnificent white horses. A middle-aged man with salt and pepper hair sat on one side, while a striking young woman with raven hair sat on the other. The carriage turned to pass the two.

A man on horseback wearing the surcoat of the Royal Family rode up to them. "Make way! Make way for Her Highness, Princess Nirnadel and the Chancellor Nimhir! Make way."

They stepped back several paces, clearing a path for the carriage and it rolled past them with clattering hooves. Dagar bowed, but looked up in time to see her gray eyes smile at him as she waved.

"By the Valar, did you see her wave at me?" Dagar asked, giddy as if stunned.

His friend chuckled. "Sure, sure... if you say so. Like she'd give you the time of day."

**HOUSE OF THE NIGHTSINGERS, Gwirith, 1407**

Spring had come to Tharbad and the rains had continued for nearly a week. That was one thing that Dagar disliked about Tharbad. He missed his home in Thuin Boid. It was rough and rugged and far from the cultural sophistication of Cardolan. As thunder rumbled in the distance, Dagar turned back to his accounts. As the book keeper for the guild, it was far from glamorous, but it kept him fed and housed and that was the best he could hope for in these days.

His mind often wandered to that day in front of the Bar Aran when he saw Nirnadel. He dreamed of a life among the elite where he could attend lavish functions and be praised by the rich and famous.

A knock on the door roused Dagar from his daydream. It was Haedoriel the Bard, a member of the Guild.

"Greetings young Dagar. I see that you have gained some weight back. I was becoming concerned," said the bard with his characteristic smile. Haedorial was known for his extensive knowledge of lore, his infectious smile, and his crystal singing voice.

"Good morning to you Haedorial. I see the storm has dampened your day in the market."

The bard nodded as he removed his dripping hat and raincoat. He hung it on an old wooden rack and walked to the fireplace. "I hear you hail from Rhudaur, young man," he said, always curious and hungry for lore.

"Why yes, my father Culberth serves Vulfredda, the lady of the Vulseggi," Dagar said with some pride and regret.

Haedorial began to light up a pipe. "Vulfredda? You don't say. She is descended from House Melossë, one of the noble houses of Rhudaur that came from Númenor with Elendil the Tall." The bard took a seat next to Dagar. "It's been a good year so far. I played for the Royal House this past Yüle. King Ostoher is a good patron," he continued as he warmed his hands by the fire.

Dagar's eyes brightened. "Tell me about the Royal Family."

Always ready to tell a good tale, Haedorial launched right in. "Our King has the blood of Isildur in him, though he is not a direct descendent. He is a fine lord of pure Dúnadan lineage. He fought with his father Minalcar in the Great Northern War fifty years ago and became king upon Minalcar's death in thirteen eighty one. So far as I have seen, we have had peace and prosperity since that time."

"Tell me of his children," Dagar asked, probing for more information.

Haedorial stood and poured himself a drought of ale to ward off the cold. The heavy patter of rain beat down upon the roof as a fog began to form outside.

"The crown prince, Valandur, is a noble lad. He leads the cavalry and has skirmished with both Rhudaur and Angmar. He is truly cut in the mold of the Warrior Kings of Cardolan. Price Braegil the Scholar is considered to be one of the great loremasters despite his youth. I have spoken to him many times and he respects learning and scholarly pursuits. He has been to Rivendell and has spoken to Elrond himself. I consulted with him back in Fourteen O' Five, when he led an expedition to Lond Daer, where the fabled Mithril Room of Tar-Telemmaitë was located."

"I've heard much of Prince Braegil, but Tar-Telemmaitë?" Dagar asked.

"Yes, one of Númenor's Kings. He was obsessed with mithril and collected a great treasure of it."

"What of the King's daughter?" asked Dagar.

"Ah, what a delightful young lady. So cultured and educated. She is a joy to speak to. Do you know she speaks Quenya, Sindarin, and Adûnaic?"

"How excellent," Dagar gushed.

Haedorial stood. "Well, I should let you get back to your work. I will go to see the guildmasters. I'll put in a good word for you."

**THE TOWN OF THUIN BOID, Lothron, 1407**

Culberth sat by the bed of his wife, a Dorwinadan serving-girl. It was considered to be bad form for Culberth to have married her, but they had a good life together, despite their wastrel son, Dagar. However, she was now on her deathbed and Culberth could do nothing. As he held a cup to her mouth, his long and faithful assistant Nasen came in.

"Sir, can I get you anything? You have been here for days," Nasen asked.

Culberth shook his head. "No, it is going to be all right. Thank you for asking."

Nasen nodded and withdrew. Culberth cradled his wife's head. "I'm sorry. I am so sorry. You will be going to a better place."

The dying woman reached up weakly and stroked her husband's face. "You have been a good husband. You must move on. I want you to have a good life... you must... you must forgive Dagar. You must let him come home."

Culberth furrowed his brow. "But he has disgraced us.... Thrown out of the Merchant's Guild! Even arrested! How can I?"

His wife grasped his collar. "You must! Please, promise me. Give him back his inheritance."

Culberth sighed. He had considered making Nasen his heir, but he could deny his wife nothing. This would change things. "Very well. I will sent for Dagar immediately."

Culberth stood and left the room. He was the Chief Victueller of Thuin Boid and responsible for the grain and feed that went to the outlying Gondryn. It was a great responsibility and he did not know if Dagar could handle it.

He saw Nasen in the main room. "Nasen, I need you to send a rider to Tharbad. Find Dagar and tell him to come home immediately."

The balding assistant nodded. "I know, his mother is dying. I will send someone right away."

"There is more. I promised to return Dagar's place here. I know we spoke about another option. I'm sorry."

A flash passed Nasen's face and his cheeks flushed. "I understand sir. We will make the best of it. Let me send the rider."

Nasen stood and walked to the stables. His expression was one of stone. He approached one of the riders of the town and gave him a note and some silver coins. The blond-haired horseman shot out of town in a rush, headed for Tharbad.


	4. The High Fort

W/N - I'm just getting back to LOTR. This is sort of a filler chapter to build the characters and the culture and to warm me back up to writing in this genre. We introduce Mercatur, our friendly mercenary from The Lost Kingdom of Cardolan. Expect this to be somewhat of a serious adventure story with very little fluff.

**THARBAD, Girithron (Winter), 1407**

Dagar packed his meager belongings as Haedorial folded clothes for the young man to stuff in his trunk. Young Dagar seemed preoccupied and moved about mechanically as he held in all of his emotions. His had been a tragic path of late.

"I'm sorry to hear about your mother, lad," said the bard with sincerity. He had come to like the young man and saw him as a surrogate son.

The young man nodded stiffly. "Thank you. It seems my father wants me to come home for good." He looked out at the slushy snow that had gathered on the streets of the great city. Small flakes continued to float about on the chill wind that blew through Tharbad.

The bard clapped his hand on Dagar's shoulder. "What will you be doing in Thuin Boid when you get there?"

Dagar shrugged as he pulled the lid over the trunk. "I'm not sure. I just know that I have to impress my father now. I have to see this as a second chance."

"I'm sure you will impress your father, Dagar. You have a good head for numbers and lore. Just know when you've reached your limit with mead and ale," Haedorial said with fatherly warmth. "I understand your father is a Northron with some standing."

"Indeed, he is the Chief Victualler of Thuin Boid, the High Fort of Rhudaur. He is responsible for distributing supplies to the towers of the kingdom so that they can fight against the rebels and the Witch King," Dagar boasted, holding his hand over his chest, speaking his lines like a bad actor.

Haedorial grinned and patted the younger man on the head. "Now, now, no need to put on airs with me, son. Just be yourself and you can't help but succeed."

Dagar coughed nervously and seemed to shrink. "Oh, sorry. My father just manages the _waenhosh_, or wagon hosts that carry the supplies. It can be very dangerous during the _Tregtagan_, the Troll Days of autumn."

"Yes, I've heard of that time in Rhudaur." Haedorial took a breath and looked out the window. "Well, son, your coach is here. You best be off."

Dagar turned and hesitated for a moment before giving the bard an awkward hug. "Haedorial, you've been like a father to me. I…I won't forget it," he said with a stutter and then began dragging his trunk off to the coach. The coachman loaded his belongings in a compartment and opened the door for young Dagar. He climbed the short step into the cabin and sat on the plush velvet seat. The coachman closed the door and Dagar looked out to see Haedorial, smiling through the window, his face framed by warm firelight. He smile back and stifled a tear.

"Yaaah!" yelled the coachman as he flicked the reins, sending the horses running ahead.

The clatter of hooves was muted by the slush and Dagar felt like he were wrapped in a thick blanket like he was as a child. He tried to recall what his mother looked like, but her face seemed to elude him. All he could remember was that she was warm and loving. "I know you weren't a Northron like my father. I know that it was frowned upon, but I loved you anyway, mom."

The coach rolled down the _Menetar_ Road past the _Bar Aran_, or Royal Palace, where guards in thick chainmail stood, liveried in the hunter green of the Royal Family. Through the gates, Dagar saw bushes that had been trimmed into fantastic shapes: dragons, wyverns, horses, even and oliphant. In the window of the palace, he could see a light on and imagined Princess Nirnadel reading in the study. He sighed as the palace faded into the gloom of the growing night.

The warmth of the coach soon made Dagar drowsy and his eyelids drooped as they approached the great _Annon Forn_, or Northern Gate. In this time of peace, the gates were always open and they clattered past the gatehouse into the clear winter night, which revealed a prosperous countryside, full of farms and houses.

Again, Dagar let out a long, sad sigh, knowing it would be a long time before he saw the majesty of Tharbad again.

**Thuin Boid – Ninui (Winter) - 1408**

The High Fort served as the capital of the land, known as the _Dor-onen-Egladil_ since the tower of Minas Brethil was razed during the Great Northern War. The coach plodded down the Eastern Trace, a dirt road that ran from East Road down to the fort. A light dusting of snow covered the ground on either side of the road. Dagar looked out from the window, letting the crisp air blow on his face. In a moment, a silver reflection stirred his memory and his heart and soon, he could see the top of the beacon tower, sitting solidly atop a ten foot earthen mound and surrounded by a wooden palisade.

"I'm home," he whispered as he peered at the tower to see the banners of House Melossë, one of the last Dúnedan families in Rhudaur. He knew that all was well and that the Horse Gate should be visible at any time.

"Ah, there it is…and they still look like horses' hooves."

The coach picked up speed and accelerated uphill past a watch tower and up to the gate. There, large guards with braided blond hair, waved the coach in. Dagar's eyes searched the interior of the fort, frantically trying to find….

"My father's tavern. It…it hasn't changed at all. Not in ten years."

He pounded the front of the coach, making the coachman bring it to a halt. He flung open the door and sped to Culberth's Tavern, where loud shouts and singing emanated. Dagar's skin crawled for a moment as he thought about how much he preferred city life to the uncouth mannerisms of the country. Choking down the urge to turn around, he walked inside to see groups of blond warriors and various mercenaries sing and cuss and spit.

In the middle of the throng was a tall, blonde woman, dressed in scale armor. She carried a large tankard of frothing ale and hammered her fist on a table to the beat of a bawdy tune.

Dagar slunk in, not wanting to be noticed until he ran into Old Pad, a servant of the house. "Master Dagar, we've been expecting you. I am so sorry about your mother."

Dagar nodded appreciatively and patted the old man on the shoulder. "Please, take me to my father. It's been a long journey."

The old man pushed his way through the rowdy crowd and took the steps upstairs lightly for his age. "This way, Master Dagar, this way."

Young Dagar looked down over the balcony and saw a heavily muscled man smash a mug over another man's head and he shuddered. "How violent," he said, nearly in a whimper.

**Culberth's Tavern**

Mercatur smashed his mug over another mercenary's head, shattering the ceramic and splashing ale all over the floor. The man crumpled to the ground to lay in a pool of alcohol, spit, and blood.

"That'll learn yah," Mercatur said, ale dripping down his brown beard, "ta steel another man's drink." The big Rhudaran looked about menacingly, getting people to back away. "Anyone else what ta try?"

There were only a few mumbles until the tall blonde woman pushed men out of her way. "If it shuts the like of you up, mercenary, I'd drink this whole barrel," she bellowed, crinkling a pink scar that ran across the cheek of an otherwise pretty face.

Two of her guards tried to hold her back. "Vulfredda, no!" they tried to say before she shrugged them off.

The head of House Melossë staggered up to Mercatur and slammed a mug down on the table. "Filler up," she ordered Nasen, Culberth's assistant.

"Yes, my lady," the balding, portly man said.

"I ain't no lady! I'm the last heir to House Melossë and a lady can't kill the orcs that infest these hills of late. I'd fight any man and drink him under the table…and you," she said, pointing to Mercatur, "drink."

The mercenary smirked and grabbed a newer tankard from a passed out patron. He poured the remaining drink on the unconscious man and put it on the table. "I'm in…and when you puke yourself silly, you're mine for the night."

Vulfredda sneered and then grinned fiercely. "And when you fall out of your chair, snot leaking from your face, you'll find yourself waking up naked in the dog kennels."

Mercatur made a mock wince and motioned for Nasen to pour the drinks. "I hope you can drink as much as you yap."

Nasen leaned over with a pitcher of ale and let the golden liquid flow into each mug. "All right…begin," he called to the tavern and cheers erupted. The two antagonists raised their tankards and drained the contents without so much as a breath.

The mercenary slammed his mug on the table. "Oh, you gonna make this difficult, eh?"

"You wouldn't have it any other way, mercenary."

A second, third, fourth, fifth, and sixth mug were drained before faces became red and speech began to slur. Still, the warriors dueled. Two more, and then two more mugs were drank and then Mercatur slowly placed his tankard down, hand shaking. Vulfredda let out a loud belch and slouched forward, holding her mug out weekly. "One…one mo…more," she said.

"Can't hold yer liquor, wench?" Mercatur replied, blinking heavily, his eyes unfocused.

This seemed to rile the leader of the ancient family. "My forefathers…forefathers were kings of Rhudaur. I'll not take…such abuse from the likes of you," she said with a heavy slur, spitting ale in his face.

He chuckled groggily and narrowed his eyes. He could see now the Dúnadan features, watered down by generations of Northron blood. "Pah…all you do with that pretty mouth is talk. Drink!"

Nasen poured another round and the crowd huddled in close as Mercatur's wobbly hands brought the mug to his lips. Ale dribbled down his matted beard and onto his tarnished chainmail shirt. He gulped down the golden drink until it was gone and his eyes glossed over. "Lumban's ears…. I…I…," he muttered as the mug fell from his numb fingers. He looked over to Vulfredda and she had become as ethereal as an Elven princess…until she slumped over the table, snoring. "Hah…haha, get yer armor…off, wench. Here I…I…," he mumbled as he slid off of his chair onto the ground with a heavy thud.


	5. The Dunnish Track

Ok, let's come back to Middle Earth to continue the Cardolan prequel. Mercatur is down on his luck. I'm hoping to somewhat emulate GRR Martin's gritty style with flawed characters and truly medieval settings. Again, legal disclaimers apply and this story is based on the ICE RP module, Dark Mage of Rhudaur.

Other malarkey - Kendo Gokyu test tomorrow.

**Thuin Boid, Fall, 1408**

Mercatur sat in the mud on the side of the road and was pelted by heavy drops of rain that hammered down on the rustic town. Dark clouds covered the sky as far as anyone could see and occasional flashes of lightning danced in the warm autumn air. Several wagons sat idle in front of the mercenary as _wealli_, or servants herded oxen through the squishy morass of a road and collared them to the wagons. Mud coated the wagon wheels while torrents of water poured from the canvas covers over the vehicles.

"Rain, mud…mud, rain," muttered Mercatur. "Manwë's teeth, how did I end up as some low-life _Airund-shegan_?" he asked himself, referring to the miserable war lackeys that guarded wagon trains for copper pennies. He looked up into the gray sky and let the rain pound on his face and he opened his mouth to taste of the downpour.

Having tasted his fill of autumn rain, he wiped his eyes with the back of his dirty sleeve and watched as a thin, young man, dressed like a dandy from Tharbad, walked around the wagons. The man was accompanied by three other men, one old and two young, one of which held an umbrella over the dandy. Mercatur thought the whole scene was ludicrous. _Look at that fop…in the middle of freaking Rhudaur. The trolls would bugger him like there was no tomorrow._

Then, someone kicked muddy water in his face. "Get up, war lackey. Do you think you'll get paid for sitting your arse in the mud all day? How're you going to earn a copper to buy more of that swill to keep you drunk?"

Mercatur sneered and reached for his dagger, but the sight of the giant, Penda Oxkiller, stayed his hand. The mercenary also noticed Oxkiller's three cronies standing with him and a fake smile replaced the sneer. "I was just coming over to help. I didn't want to deprive the _wealli_ of their chance to shine," he said insincerely. His underclothing was soaked to the core and he didn't want to deal with these thugs. _Better to bide my time and look busy._

"Well, get hopping unless you want Nasen to put you back with the hogs where he found you, drunk and penniless," said Penda, his thinning, flaxen hair matted and dripping water down his chainmail hauberk. "If Nasen doesn't, I'll put you there myself."

Mercatur glanced one more time at the four bullies and then grinned at Oxkiller. He thought for a second that he could take them, but knew deep down that he couldn't. He bowed his head and sloshed away, muttering, "I'm on it." He splashed through pools of brown water up to the _waenhosh_, or wagon train, where _wealli_ and sell sword alike were loading the last of the goods. Mercatur towered over one stocky man, whom he swore was the ugliest creature that he'd ever seen that was not an orc. The man wore a rigid leather breastplate and had a small shield slung over his back. He and another man were trying to push a barrel into the back of a wagon.

"Give ya a hand?" Mercatur asked gruffly, his reluctance clear in his tone of voice.

The short man didn't seem to catch the nuance of Mercatur's tone and nodded enthusiastically. "Thank you. You push barrel hard," he said with a thick accent, a big smile plastered on his face.

The mercenary made a half grin and placed his hands on the barrel. "One…two…three," he said and they all pushed until it rolled firmly into the wagon. He wiped more rain from his face and shut the tail gate. "What the heck is in those barrels?"

The short man shook his head vigorously, shaking water from his curly brown hair. "It wine from some place east."

"Dorwinadan," corrected the other man. "And a fine wine it is." The man extended his hand to Mercatur. "I'm Gilen…from Dorwinadan and this is Umlaut."

Mercatur shook Gilen's hand cautiously and nodded to Umlaut, who bowed slightly, the smile still frozen in place. "Mercatur's the name. Does he always smile like that? It's kinda unnerving."

Gilen shrugged. "I'm afraid he does. I find it infectious."

Mercatur seemed satisfied with the answer. He was too wet and miserable to make an issue of it. "So, what are we going to do with all of this wine…other than drink it?"

"It's all for the Tirthon, including the corn, the flour, and the salted meats. This'll keep them for the winter."

"You mean the beacon tower? Yah, that makes sense, seeing as how they're stuck up there close to Trollshaws," said the mercenary, stroking his thick brown beard.

Umlaut nodded, his head bobbing stiffly like a bird. "We go East Road. Stop at Maig Tuira. Good tavern. Beer…women."

Mercatur almost laughed out loud. "Maig Tuira? It's a dung heap and that tavern has nothing but swill and the women are lucky if they have two teeth." Umlaut didn't seem to understand and continued to smile to which Mercatur sighed heavily. The mercenary rolled his eyes. "All right, are we loaded? Can we leave now?"

Gilen and Umlaut climbed up into the wagon and took a seat, followed by Mercatur. He threw his pack on one of the barrels and then shook the water out of his hair. Umlaut began chanting something, but the mercenary was too tired to listen. Instead, he leaned back against a sack of flour and closed his eyes.

_Damn freak show. I'll be glad when this is over. Maybe Angmar needs mercenaries. I'll bet they pay better than this circus._

With that, he drifted off into an uneasy sleep, his snoring filling the back of the wagon.

**The Dunnish Track**

The muddy road that ran more or less east to west was really no more than a path, just wide enough to support the _waenhosh_. In the misty distance, rolling hills could be seen, dotting the landscape. Dagar sat in the lead wagon, listening to the _pitter patter_ of rain, hitting the wagon cover. A snort and then a loud snore startled him and he looked to see Old Pad roll over, his mouth wide open. Up front, the brothers Nig and Cisgid, Dagar's servants, handled the reins to the oxen. They'd been driving on for two days.

Dagar fought off the drowsiness that was slowly overtaking him and he licked his teeth to get that filmy taste from his mouth. He looked outside to see the diffuse light fading rapidly. "What time is it?" he asked the brothers.

"It's near dusk," said one, stating the obvious.

"I _know _that," answered Dagar, "but what _time_ is it?"

Both brothers shook their heads. They were both strong, but not very bright. Dagar sighed. "Fine. The rain has slowed us down, but we should be near Maig Tuira. Please ask Penda to scout ahead and prepare our arrival. A warm fire at the tavern will feel quite nice, don't you think?"

Nig…or maybe it was Cisgid - Dagar could never be sure – jumped down and ran off to find Penda Oxkiller and his minions. Dagar never liked dealing with them and only communicated with the giant through his servants. _I'll be glad when this is over. Maybe then father will let me open trade with Tharbad. Yes, that will be much more palatable…and safe._

Soon, the sound of hooves splashing in water could be heard to then recede as Penda and his men rode ahead. Dagar felt relieved whenever they were away. Although they never bothered him, he could see the laughter in their eyes whenever they looked at him. What would he do when he took over his father's business? How would he manage so many rugged men?

He poured himself a mug of Dorwinadan wine and downed it quickly, letting it warm him inside. With the onset of evening, it began to grow a bit chilly. Dagar thought it a bit odd for autumn in Rhudaur was usually rather pleasant if a bit wet. Before he could ponder further, the sound of hooves derailed his wagon train of thought.

"To arms! To arms!" a voice called. It was Penda. The big horseman rode up to Dagar's wagon, a long-hafted axe held in one hand with a kite shield held in the other.

"What is it? What is it?" called Dagar breathlessly, his eyes wide with sudden fear.

"Thuin Boid's been sacked. It's burned to the ground with naught but smoldering cinders left."

Dagar's face turned ashen and his jaw went slack. "Are there…are there any survivors?"

"Only one," announced Penda as he removed his open-faced helm, "and I don't think he'll make it." Penda's friends then rode up, one of them with a young man slung over the front of the saddle.

"Bring him here. Bring him here," Dagar squeaked, trying desperately to stay calm. _We've got to turn back. We should turn back._

Nig and Cisgid took the wounded man and brought him into the wagon. They laid him down and took Old Pad's blanket to put upon him. Old Pad merely moaned and rolled over to begin snoring again. The young man was covered in blood and was soaked to the bone from the rain. He shivered like a leaf as the brothers rubbed him to elevate his temperature. The man opened his eyes and his teeth began chattering.

Dagar took his hand. "What happened? What happened?"

"T-t-t-they c-c-c-came…. C-c-c-couldn't s-s-see them. D-d-dunlendings…wild m-m-men."

Dagar looked around, wide eyed. "H-how many? Where'd they go?"

"Th-three hundred…m-maybe more. They w-w-went north with p-prisoners."

"Three hundred?" young Dagar said in shock and horror. "We have a dozen. We can't possibly complete this. We have to turn back west. We have to go back to Thuin Boid."

Nig and Cisgid nodded in agreement. They certainly didn't want to risk their necks for some food. Dagar was about to speak again when a howl tore through the crisp air. "Wolves?"

The wounded man shook his head. "N-n-no…wargs…."


	6. Maig Tuira

Supernatural forces are afoot.

**On the Dunnish Track, Fall, 1408**

The shouting at the head of the _waenhosh_ woke Mercatur with a start. He blinked hard several times to clear his eyes and then saw Umlaut in the driver's seat holding the reins. "What's going on?" he asked the short Umli.

"I know not. Penda yelling to arms ourselves."

Without another word, Mercatur cocked his small crossbow and fitted a quarrel in the groove. He peered out the back of the wagon and saw that they were the last in a line of four. There, Gilen was crouched down, scanning the dark horizon. Then, the howl of wargs pierced the air.

"The wargs are to the west," said Gilen, pointing in the distance. "They're cutting off our way back home."

"Smart buggers, wargs," said Mercatur. "I'd take a pack o wolves over any one of em." He looked back over his shoulder. "Umlaut, pick up the pace. If any of the other wagons get in your way, run em over."

"Hokay, bozz," he said as if he hadn't a care in the world.

Mercatur looked back at Gilen and chuckled in spite of the danger. "Manwë's teeth, that guy is ugly. Where'd you find him?"

Gilen returned the grim smile and looked over at Umlaut's puffy features. "He's an Umli from way up north. Apparently, they live year round in ice and snow. He may not look good, but he's a fighter."

Then, Penda and his men rode up to the rear of the wagon. "Take refuge in the ruins of the town!" the big man yelled. "We'll hold off the wargs!" With that, he waved his long axe in a circle around his head and spurred his horse forward, followed by the others with spears held high.

Gilan watched them ride off. "Ahhh, to be a knight."

"_Those_ guys are knights?" The look on Mercatur's face was a mix of incredulity and disgust, his eyes wide and his lip half curled. Soon, the horsemen vanished into the darkness and the sound of their hoofbeats was swallowed by the pounding rain.

"Bozz, we almost at town," Umlaut called back. "It no look too good."

Mercatur peered forward to see the glow of smoldering fires just past a ditch and low rock wall. "This is going to be a long night."

**The Ruins of Maig Tuira**

Dagar fidgeted ceaselessly as he crouched behind Nig and Cisgid, who were driving the wagon. They had reached the gap in the wall that led into Maig Tuira and smoldering fires gave off just enough light for him to see stones and timbers strewn about. The young man, named Baga Montúri, had passed out from his wounds. The only thing that he said before drifting off was, "Macha Mur."

Dagar continually craned his head around to try and catch a glimpse of Penda and his men. The distant cry of wargs in pain strengthened his heart somewhat, but fear still gripped his being like a vise. He glanced back at the next wagon in line and made eye contact with the Dunnish driver, who looked just as wide eyed as he did. "Pick up the pace, Craj!" he yelled, just to be saying something to keep his mind from imagining being torn apart by wargs.

Nig and Cisgid drove past the ruins of a large hut. The stone walls were mostly intact but the thatched roof had collapsed during the burning. Thick smoke roiled up into the night sky and Dagar saw something that froze his innards.

"Dear Valar…are those…arms…and legs?"

Hanging from the wall of the hut were a series of arms and legs – raw and bloody, some big, some small. Dagar leaned over the side of the wagon and puked.

"Stop! Stop the wagons," someone yelled in a deep voice. Dagar looked over to see that new war lackey…that Mercatur fellow.

"Why? Why should we stop?" Dagar asked, wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve. He looked sickly pale in the dim glow of the fires.

The mercenary came up to the young man and pointed all around. "This is a defensible position and we best not go too far into town with the Macha Mur having recently left."

"Macha Mur? Baga said that name. What is it?" Dagar asked, his voice squeaking.

Mercatur's face betrayed his lack of patience and he curled his lip in a faint snarl. "Not _it_…_them._ They're a bunch of pillaging, raping savages is the best I can say of them. You see those limbs," he said, gesturing at the grotesque hangings. "That's they're way of saying they'll show us no mercy."

"O…okay, let's stop here. Set up a defense…yes," Dagar said, his eyes darting around, searching for some hope in this pending disaster.

Mercatur nodded. "Good idea. We need to lay low until the Macha Mur are far enough away…and you're going to pay me a gold sovereign as I didn't sign on for _this_ mess."

With a blank expression, Dagar reached into his pocket and fished out a coin, which he handed to the mercenary. Mercatur grinned and stuffed the gold in his bag. He then hefted his crossbow over his shoulder and stomped off, his boots squishing in the mud. "Lumban of the Macha Mur," he said, shaking his head. "I didn't think you had the balls to do _this_."

Dagar sighed, half thankful that someone had taken charge. He wiped his damp hands by rubbing them against his pants and felt the ring he had been given by Nasen. _Whew, glad I didn't lose this. I have to get it to the Knight Commander of Tirthon._ He pulled the filigreed gold ring out of his pocket and took a quick look at it under the light of a lantern. _I don't know how this will be possible. It's just too dangerous._

The sound of hooves splashing in water interrupted his thoughts and he looked over to see Penda riding into the camp. Two riders were with him and one riderless horse. Penda trotted his mount up to Dagar and looked down on the young man. His axe was dripping with blood. "We drove off the wargs, but they'll be back. Minus a dozen or so, I'd say," he announced proudly before he spat into the mud.

"G-g-good job, Penda," Dagar said, still afraid and always nervous around the Oxkiller. "We've set up camp. We should return to Thuin Boid in the morning."

Penda curled his lip. "Nasen wants these supplies delivered to the Tirthon. It wouldn't do to turn tail and run at a little trouble."

"B-but you lost a man in the fight," said Dagar, incredulous about the Oxkiller's callousness.

"If you want an omelet, you have to break some eggs. I say we go on tomorrow – the Tirthon is less than three days from here." Penda's voice was insistent.

Dagar nodded hesitantly. "Okay…if you think so. Okay, that's what we'll do."

Without another word, Penda pulled the reins of his horse to the right and rode off to tether it. He swung his foot over one side of the saddle and leapt down into the mud with a splash.

Dagar sighed. He really did not want to press on, but it seemed like things were getting out of his control. Just then, he noticed steam coming from his breath. _It is awfully cold for autumn. I best get some sleep. Penda will set up a guard._

He crawled back up into the wagon where Old Pad still snored. His two servants, Nig and Cisgid were already asleep too. Dagar was exhausted and began to drift off immediately after he pulled a thick wool blanket over himself. As his vision blurred, he thought he saw a flake of snow drifting down at the open rear of the wagon. _It couldn't be…too early in the year…._


	7. Heart of the Black Prince

**Writer's Notes - ok, back to LOTR for a bit. I wanted to show the Witch King some more and put forth a bit of his backstory. Also, a little tie into the Silmarillion. The setting is courtesy ICE's Empire of the Witch King.**

**Other malarkey - Happy birthday to two good friends. Being acting CO isn't too tough yet. Practiced some light tameshigiri - cutting with shinken. 3/4" bamboo stalks. **

**Carn Dûm, Fall, 1408**

Heavy flakes of snow whirled around the stone balcony that jutted out from the mighty fortress of the Witch King of Angmar. A cold wind blew against the cliff face, which would have frozen any mortal. However, the Lord of the Nazgûl stood near the metal railing, unfazed, gazing off into the northern wastelands with cold, unflinching eyes. The glint of silver armor reflected the dim sunlight beneath layers of dark clouds – just the way he liked it.

In his unholy mind, he thought back to a time when he felt the sun on his face…and he enjoyed it. An image flashed in his dark consciousness of a grand ship with full sails and the banners of mighty Númenór full and fluttering in the wind under a bright sun. Waves of blue water crashed on the prow of the vessel and it creaked and groaned, but the man on the forecastle worried not. His ship was a fortress of timber and an indomitable symbol of Westernesse. Tindomul, the Twilight Son, he was called in the language of the High Elves and Er-Mûrazôr, the Black Prince, to his kinsmen. The prince looked off over the roiling sea, smelling the brine in the air and feeling the cool spray on his face. The ships of his fleet sailed beside him, like castles dotting the land of a kingdom. _How appropriate_, he thought. When he reached Umbar, it would be the birth of a new kingdom.

The young man's face darkened beneath his raven hair, which whipped in the breeze. He had lived in the shadow of his brother, Atanamir, whose ambitions were as large as his ego. Both were sons of the king, Tar-Ciryatan, and both were descended from the legendary Elros Tar-Minyatur. Why should he, the Black Prince, have to grovel at the feet of another man?

The sound of gulls broke the spell of self-pity and Er-Mûrazôr looked up into the bright sky. The white birds flocked overhead and a few landed on the giant masts of his ship. He shielded his eyes momentarily until a fluttering sail blocked the sun. He could smell it now…land. He stretched his hand out and a sailor placed a spyglass in his palm. The prince peered ahead and the great port was now visible – Umbar. There, he would now be king…and beyond, Middle-Earth, a land to exploit.

The Witch King's mind broke away from the memory and the image of young Er-Mûrazôr faded, but the smell of the sea remained in his undead nostrils. The wraith snorted, trying to clear the scent and looked down at a heavy, golden ring that encircled his index finger, one of nine that were all very similar. He cocked his head, thinking about how long that ring had been there. He tried to entertain the thought of taking it off, maybe just for a moment, but a pit formed in his undead stomach and he put the idea out of his mind – he was a slave to the ring and nothing would ever change that. No man could ever slay him and he would exist for all eternity, neither dead nor alive.

He turned, his mind now focused in its singular obsession – to destroy the kingdoms of the North. His master had spoken eons ago and he would carry out this task if it took centuries. His priest, the Angûlion, awaited him. Chief of the Mor-sereg, the Cult of the Black Blood, the Angûlion was the Witch King's right hand. He too, had seen the unfolding of the centuries since proud Númenór and was granted near eternal life by none other than Sauron. In millennia past, he could claim kinship with Er-Mûrazôr and another ringwraith, Herudil, also known as Akhorahil the Blind or Morgomir.

"Come, Angûlion, we must return to Lughilsarik. The storm needs more fury," he said in his hollow, whisper. But the message was clear – they would use the Zaugthrakas. The Angûlion paused for a moment, seeming to fear such an event. Er-Mûrazôr sensed the trepidation. "You may wait in the Propylaeum," he added, indicating the entry chamber to the great tower of Lughilsarik.

"You go to visit Zaugthrakash again?"

The Witch King smiled inwardly, knowing the visit was beyond the capability of any mortal or elf. He imagined being bathed in frigid light, the ecstasy of it one of the few real pleasures left to his wraith form. "Yes."

"The Zaugthrakash, what is it, exactly?" the priest asked, curiosity written on his face.

Er-Mûrazôr turned his ghostly face toward his cousin, his cold eyes glowing with frigid glee. "It is…the Awful Fragment," he said cryptically as he walked past and toward the narrow bridge across an endless chasm. They journeyed through the red mountain to the southern face where fell beasts awaited them. The foul, winged reptiles took wing with their riders, casting dark shadows across the land. They flew through the swirling snow as ice and frost coated the shouts and bat-like wings of the beasts. Then, through the shroud of fog, he saw it – Lughilsarik.

It was a monstrous spike of obsidian, build on a small plateau 7,500 feet up in the Misty Mountains. The Witch King guided his beast downward toward a snow-covered clearing where the reptile dug its claws into the ground. Dismounting as the Angûlion landed, he looked up at the tower, shaped like a five-pointed star, its black walls gleaming coldly. He patted the beast on its snout and tethered it to one of the black pillars leading up to the doors of the tower. He ran his fingers along the silver Tengwar inscriptions along one pillar – ancient sigils of magic to keep away the unwary and the unwanted. The power of the wards worried him not, however, as he had written them himself. He stepped over the frozen body of a curious orc, unconcerned that one of his minions had fallen. After all, he had thousands more.

At the doors to the tower, the Witch King passed his ghostly hand over deadly sigils and seams appeared along the black, stone portals. They opened with a deep, grinding sound and pushed the fallen snow away from the entrance. He took a step in and could feel the power within and even his icy heart was chilled. His heavy boots _clunked_ on the dull slate floor as his priest followed him in. He walked to one wall, where a black statue with ruby eyes stood. Only the Angûlion's breath misted in this frozen hall.

"Angûlion, you must wait here. Your flesh cannot bear what lies beyond," he said in a voice growing in strength and volume. He looked back to see the priest bow and take a seat. At the statue, he first placed his helm and crown upon its head. Then, he removed his ancient sword and flail and placed them in the hands of the statue, which took hold of the items. Unarmed, he strode from the Propylæum forward into the tower, his boots ringing in the cold air.

There, he took a moment to admire the construction of the tower – 150 feet tall and crafted of interlocked blocks of obsidian, polished smooth and covered in a layer of frost. Only a slender cleft in the north wall marred its perfection. He walked on, across the floor of polished slate to an iron ladder and, hand over hand, he climbed up the icy rungs to a ramp that wound around the central pillar. He pulled himself onto the ramp and began the final walk to the summit, his fists balled in anticipation. He felt the ring, hard and cold on his finger and his cruel intellect flashed back to a memory – a being of infinite beauty and grace holding out a ring to him, promising eternal life. Annatar, the being was called, a creature of infinite might. Er-Mûrazôr, the dark-haired prince, took the gift of life without end and swore a dark oath to Annatar…the Lord of the Rings.

One ring to rule them all, he later discovered. But, by then, it was too late.

At the rounded pedestal at the summit, the Witch King stopped and stretched out his hands. Frost covered his form, giving him an inhuman look, but his body felt no cold. He looked down into the pedestal, made of the volcanic glass known as laen to the great smiths. There, suspended in the translucent glass was a large blue fragment. Despite its broken state, it was beautiful to behold. With icy hands, the ringwraith grasped the edges of the pedestal and the fragment began to glow. It bathed him in an eerie blue light and he felt warm, a feeling that had almost been forgotten in his frozen heart. Then, he began to smell the fragrance of a mountain stream, chill and pure. He grit his teeth, trying to fight the sensations, but the power of it was overwhelming. Again, an image and sound tore through his mind – a mischievous laugh and the twirl of a woman's dark hair. The scent of flowers was now thick in his nostrils and he could see the Bay of Rómenna from his tower and the sound of pounding waves now filled his ears. The woman rounded a corner and he followed to a balcony where he could see groves of _yavannamírë_ growing outside. The woman turned with a smile on her glowing face and she put her hands on the prince's chest.

The Witch King wobbled and fell to one knee as the vision jolted his psyche. He howled, a terrible soul-chilling shriek and grasped the pedestal with all his might. With singular focus in his cruel mind he forced the vision away and brought his power to bear. The Zaugthrakash, radiated intense light, drowing the Witch King in its magnificence. Icicles formed and shattered on his face and limbs until the power of the fragment was tamed and its light diminished. Outside, the howl of a storm could now be heard – the Zaugthrakash had done its work. The storm would soon descend upon hapless Rhudaur, Cardolan, and Arthédain. Shaking and weak now, the Witch King stepped back and coldly admired the fragment, a piece of the fallen lamp of Illuin.

He could not believe his luck when it was found seven years ago. In the time before time, the Valar placed the two lamps to light the world of Arda, but Melkor threw them down and the shape of Arda was bent forever – seas boiled and the stuff of the earth liquefied and leapt up in torment. Mountains were formed and the land was split as the falling lamps tore the world asunder. For eons, the fragment lay, buried beneath the mountains until now. The Black Prince smiled inwardly as the memory of warmth faded, knowing that he alone controlled the destiny of the North.


End file.
